Since the world is going through this with me, I suspect that my blog will serve mostly as my own reminders of my experiences of 2020, but if you're reading this, I hope it makes you feel less alone - or I hope you'll respond, and make ME feel less alone!
Because alone is getting lonely.
I am a PollyAnna. I have turned my lemons into lemonade more times than I can count. When my family didn't support my post high school education, I found a way to feel like a badass by putting myself through school, proving to myself and the world that I could do it. When I got cancer, I fought long and hard and never gave up, making huge sacrifices in my health to do years of treatment so that I could have a future, and once again, I felt like a badass. When I got divorced, the same thing: I decided that no matter what my feelings about the marriage, I would treat my daughter's father with dignity and I would include him in our lives, and I would set aside my fear and reclaim my career to create an independent and lovely life. Once again, doing so made me feel like a badass.
The difference between then and now is that I have always found a tribe of people to go through hard times with. I'm famous in my circle of friends for inviting people over and feeding them: in the summer, after a day of hiking or hanging out on a beach or just doing chores, I'll text friends to pop in and bring something to share (or not). I have a little table and chairs positioned in a shady spot in my back yard, and I'll cover it with delicious selections (cheese and crackers, fruit, a home made eggplant dip, a tomato tarte, smoked salmon, hummus and veggies, heated Trader Joe's items like spanokopita) and cucumber mint water, sparkling water, and lots of wine. Or I'll host an impromptu BBQ with grilled veggies and chicken, and my friends will bring salads and desserts. Sometimes it's just one friend who drops in, and I'll make a pot of coffee or tea, or open a bottle of wine. We'll sit on the front porch, or in my living room, or at the kitchen table (the cozy little one by the window where the light streams in) and talk about everything and nothing. On summer evenings, my porch swing is in the shade. On spring days, my porch swing is almost touched by the lilac tree that grows in the side yard, and when we sit out there the motion of the swing releases sweet scents.
Sometimes I'll sit on the porch swing alone, but neighbors passing by will wave as they pass by, exchanging a few words, or sometimes they'll join me.
On the weekends, my friend Michele and I often do the five mile Lincoln Park loop, chatting merrily about our lives, solving the world's problems, playing with ideas, and just enjoying the bits of nature we encounter. Sometimes she'll come in afterwards and we'll have a coffee or a snack or lunch, and we'll sit on my sofas, caught up in the moment of discussion until the minutes or hours slip away.
On weekdays, my colleague-friend Mai will invite me to walk the track at lunch with her. How I regret every time I said "not today, I need to get something done at lunch" now! My colleague-friend Jeannette has the classroom across the hall from me, and we talk about our kids (the ones that belong to us, as well as the kids at school) and funny stories about our days and our struggles, and we support each other. How I miss those snippets of conversations!
Those simple memories are the ones I ache for now. When will I get to sit in a room with another adult?
Reminiscing about it is wonderful and heartbreaking. These are my simple pleasures, and I miss them more than I can say. There are bigger things, too - hiking in national forests an hour or two from here, going to work with my wonderful colleagues, going downtown for a variety of activities, shopping the farmer's market (which I usually do alone, but I always run into people I know for great conversations) and so much more.
I miss the sounds of a basement with a handful of teenagers laughing and teasing one another and watching movies and eating what I tease is "disgusting" food (Hot Cheetos, Dominoes Pizza, chicken nuggets, sour gummy worms, etc.) but which I buy them anyway because I think it's awesome that they want to hang out at my house, where I know they're safe and having fun.
So, this is what isolation is like. I'm noticing all of the simplest things, feeling their absence with grief, loss, and some fear. When will we be able to indulge in the simple pleasure of walking to Husky Deli at 7pm on a summer evening, stretching our legs and bringing our dog, to stand on the sidewalk out front of the deli, enjoying their ice cream and chatting with friends and neighbors?
Here are other observations about self isolation:
Wearing sweatpants all the time - I ordered two new pairs from Amazon because I only had one pair - actually doesn't make me feel better. It makes me feel like I must be sick, indoors and wearing sweats. Today I put on a sundress with a light cardigan, just to feel less blah. I'll wear them sometimes, but wearing them all the time doesn't help.
I look forward to even the smallest amount of social interaction. We're at the height of it in America right now, so we've been advised to limit ALL interaction, including trips to the grocery store. I was able to go about 11 days between grocery trips last time, and this time my plan is to make it 2+ weeks, so on Sunday when I went to Trader Joe's I knew it would be my only foray into the world for two or more weeks. Chatting with the check out clerks was a treat and a privilege, one that I normally wouldn't think twice about. Last night, we drove to Alki to see the pink supermoon over the city, and stopped at Habit Burgers to get take-out, and it felt like a much more luxurious experience than a drive through!
We wear face masks every time we leave the house. I ordered several from Etsy, where they are getting harder to find and more expensive by the minute. At first I thought I only needed one, but I like to go outside every day to get sunshine (or rain, for that matter) and exercise, and every time I wear it the moisture of my breathing makes it disgusting, so they have to be washed regularly. I ordered Tessa and I a few more - if we're going to be wearing these for months, we will have a small selection of styles, but more importantly, we will have no excuse not to wear them. (Not wearing something that is filled with moist air expelled from our noses and mouths is also a bonus.)
When I'm doing errands, a face mask is no big deal. But when I run, it makes me feel like I have no air all - I had to rip it off my face to gasp for breath. I bring it with me to exercise now, but only put it on if I'm too close to others.
When I'm in public, I have a hard time trusting anyone without a face mask now. They say that we can be asymptomatic for somewhere between six and fourteen days (I've seen conflicting information), and that when we breathe, cough, or sneeze the droplets from our breath can stay in the air somewhere between a half hour and two hours; when we cough or sneeze, six feet away isn't nearly far enough. So, anyone without a mask is someone I'm leery of, because maybe they're not paying attention, maybe they don't care, maybe they don't take social distancing seriously. (Or maybe they just can't get their hands on a mask, because of the shortages.)
But mostly I'm not in public.
Mostly, I am at home. I'm working - for which I am ever so grateful - teaching students from my computer, in my home office in the daylight basement. The office itself is a nice space, filled with the plants from my classroom (thank goodness I brought them home!), with windows on two walls, and a stand sit desk and swivel chair. I have a cozy chair and ottoman in the corner, perfect for reading or grading. I have WiFi, a working printer (with ink!), and everything I could use.
I find the time with my students a reprieve and a delight, but sitting at my desk doing the other work - meetings, grading, lesson planning - is twice as difficult as it used to be. It reminds me of my isolation. My lovely office, with no distractions, pretty soft blue walls and the white painted wood furniture that I picked out, the art, the candles, the plants, the necessary supplies, eases my grief but comes nowhere near to erasing it.
It's a struggle.
But not as much as it is for my lovely daughter, who is 17 and so removed from every part of the life she craves: friends, favorite teachers, independence, time away from home so that she can enjoy it when she returns. I ache for her losses. She's taking a class she's been excited about - forensics - since before she started high school, and she feels like she's losing out. She has a favorite teacher or two that she really admires, and she's missing them. I feel her yearning, and her loss. She'll never get to do over her junior year again, and she is missing so much and feeling the pain.
But here we are. We are diligent about our social distancing, determined to do our small part. And make no mistake, for all of my moaning here, I know how lucky I am. As a matter of fact, I feel guilty about having these feelings of loss, because so many others have lost so much more than I have! I have a job, and therefore income, so I'm not worried about paying the mortgage or feeding myself. I am healthy, and not in a high risk group. I do not live in a tiny apartment, but in a home with space for us to have our own spaces, and a yard where we can sit outdoors with no concern about strangers (or friends for that matter) breathing on us. We can work/do school from home, with all the technology we need.
We are the lucky ones. And it's hard if you're lucky, like us, so it's even harder for those who worry about food, have no internet, don't have a job anymore. It's hard for the parents of little kids, who are trying to work while entertaining a toddler. It's hard for people in abusive relationships, trapped with their abusers. It's hard for little kids who simply don't understand what's happening. It's hard for elderly folks who feel even more isolated. It's hard. So hard.
But there are joys, too. I can breathe, because I'm not rushing. Tessa and I have played board games, and made jewelry together. She's sharing funny TikTok's with me. We look forward to watching shows together (our shared favorite: Zoe's Extraordinary Playlist) in the evenings. I'm exercising more (though not nearly enough!) outside, and doing basement yoga. (Well, yoga is on pause, because Chance ate my yoga mat! He shredded it to smithereens. I think he did it because I kept trying to make him go away last time I did yoga and he wanted to "participate" in unhelpful, un-zen-like ways, and so he took out his frustration at being excluded on the mat. Funny dog! The new one was ordered over a week ago, and is set to arrive on Saturday.)
I'm reading. I'm writing. The house is decorated for Easter, and we're planning an Easter brunch in our Easter clothes (sundresses), even though it's just the two of us. Tessa wants bacon, I want blueberry lemon tea bread, and we'll figure out something for the main dish (quiche? fritatta? eggs benedict?). I'm trying to maintain some semblance of normalcy, and enjoying a special meal at Easter is part of that. We bought Easter candy that's tucked away until Sunday, and the table has the funny little Easter Tree that I bought when Tessa was little (she'd redecorate it over and over and over, moving the little eggs around the small branches a hundred times in a row) and the pastel Easter egg dishes. It's a small ritual to bring it out, but it feels like a tiny drop of normalcy in a sea of uncertainty.
There are walks by the sea. There are calls with friends. There's good food. There's Netflix, Hulu, and good books in quantity (including some dropped off on my porch by the local bookstore the same day I ordered them - talk about great service, Pegasus Books!).
I'll get through. This, too, shall pass.
Other strange observations:
We are using soap in incredible quantities, matched only by our use of hand lotion. Tessa's prone to dry skin, and her hands are cracking and bleeding; mine are merely itchy and dry.
The dog has gotten quite used to this. Chance is going to struggle when we go back to work!
I'm still losing weight - down another pound this week on Weight Watchers. Woo hoo! If I hadn't joined WW and committed to losing weight before this, I'm pretty sure I'd be up 10 pounds by now. My weight loss is slower than before isolation because I've enjoyed some brownies and two different burgers, but I don't feel bad about it. I'm still losing, my BMI is back in healthy range, my clothes look and fit better on me, and I'm thrilled by it. I'm really embracing the "it's a lifestyle, not a diet" philosophy of WW, and I think I can do this for the rest of my life.
Tessa and I are getting on better than I could have hoped. I am SO GRATEFUL for that. She's upstairs learning sign language from an online video at the moment, and that makes me happy.
I had to rejoin Amazon - having some new things arrive has been helpful. Tessa and I are making jewelry from supplies we purchased; my new yoga mat is from Amazon; I even ordered new underwear because the first clothing that was too big was my stretched-out underwear!
The world is quiet, and I like that. I can't hear cars, trains, or loud noises in the distance. They say wildlife is creeping back in, and I love that vision.
I have only driven my car a few miles in several weeks; I can't remember the last time I got gas.
It could be a lot worse.
